


The Mistress of Paris

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:36:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celeste de Machault, the new Mistress of Paris, is making a determined break with the traditions of her predecessor; and so she is hosting an international ball.  Gil, Agatha and Tarvek are all invited, of course, and this time Gil plots to distract Tarvek in order to get an uninterrupted evening with Agatha.  That's why he brings along his best friend and favourite diplomat, who has a way with words.</p>
<p>But who exactly is Madame de Machault, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mistress of Paris

The news of the assassination of the Master of Paris rocked Europa, and everyone, of course, had a different theory about who the culprits might have been. I, personally, suspected it might have been one of his own senior assistants; after all, they had regular access to him, and I had heard rumours of discontent. I was probably in a minority there. Gil suspected Martellus von Blitzengaard, who had somehow managed to survive the recent war and was trying to rebuild some form of power; Agatha suspected the Belgians; and quite a number of people, apparently, suspected Gil. This was depressing, but unfortunately not surprising. Had he wanted to seize Paris, he was in a prime position to do so.

Gil, however, did not seize Paris, although I think he might have considered it if the chaotic interregnum there had lasted for much longer; but then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. An announcement came out of Paris to say that there was now a new Mistress, and that her name was Celeste de Machault.

“So,” said Gil. “What do you know about her?”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, all right. What do you know that you're allowed to talk to me about? Damn classified information. Mind you, I'm a fine one to talk.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “I expect we have very much the same classified information which we are not allowed to discuss. But, broadly, she's a spark as you might expect, she is some relative of the late Master, and... we think she's likely to be more of a public figure.”

“That wouldn't be a bad thing,” Gil mused. “I don't think all the secrecy surrounding the old Master really worked in his favour.”

“No, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was what finally got him assassinated,” I said. “Gil, would you mind very much ordering me a sandwich? I'm ravenous for some reason.”

“You always are these days,” said Gil. “And you're still losing weight. You're thinner now than you were when the war started and your authorities hauled you back to England.” He waved over the nearest minion. “Get the Ambassador a sandwich,” he ordered. Looking at me again, he asked, “Any particular type?”

“Thank you,” I said. “Cheese and tomato, perhaps?”

“Cheese and tomato, then,” said Gil. “And make it a large one. The Ambassador needs feeding up. Now, where were we?”

“Talking about how the previous Master of Paris was shrouded in secrecy, and it appears that his successor may change that,” I reminded him. “Sorry about the interruption.”

“Oh, yes, and you said she was a spark.” Gil sat back in his chair. “That almost goes without saying, apart, of course, from the one notable exception.”

“Tsar Arkadii,” I replied. “Yes, but he knows how to get sparks to work for him. That is a very rare and useful quality.”

“I'd say it was pretty much unique in a non-spark,” said Gil.

“Ah, but you forget the nature of Russia,” I replied. “Russia is the most thoroughly awkward and unco-operative country anyone could possibly have to rule. Generally speaking, the areas with the most fertile soil have the wrong climate for growing crops well, and the areas with the right climate have poor soil. Communications are generally difficult, most of the interior is under several feet of snow all winter, there are huge areas of uninhabited steppe land, and all that is before you even start on the politics, which, I have to say, have been almost unremittingly dreadful for the last several hundred years. Anyone who can pull all that together as successfully as Arkadii has done is not going to have a problem with a few sparks.”

“Yes, absolutely, Ardsley, but we're going off the subject,” said Gil. “We were talking about Celeste de Machault.”

“Indeed we were,” I replied. “However, I suspect we are not going to get very much further with what we know at the moment, so we shall just have to wait for the next announcement from Paris. I think there will be one before too long.”

My sandwich arrived at this point, and we moved on to the discussion of lighter matters. I was, however, quite correct. Within a couple of weeks, the next announcement came: the Mistress of Paris was doing something quite unprecedented. She was staging a ball.

I did not get a personal invitation, which did not surprise me in the least, as Madame de Machault had probably never even heard of me. But the Mistress of Paris was not like Tsar Arkadii; she was neither so well-informed nor so well-connected, so far as we were aware. Consequently, Gil's invitation allowed him to bring up to five additional guests with him, and he insisted that Lucilla and I should be among them.

“Ah,” I said, embarrassed. “That... actually, that could be a little difficult in Lucilla's case.”

Gil's eyes widened. “Ardsley! Do you mean to tell me you're about to cause grave disappointment to your nephew?”

I was grateful for the way he put it. “Well, only if it's a boy, naturally. Otherwise, Edward will still succeed to the title. Although, honestly, I don't think he really wants to. He's much more concerned about being an entomologist. He spends all his time classifying beetles.”

“I suppose someone's got to do it,” Gil observed. “But that's very good news. You'd better ask her if she minds you going, then. She may want you around.”

“Well, actually, I may want me around,” I said. “Lucilla is thirty-six, and that is not so young to be starting a family. I'll want to keep an eye on her.”

“You have staff to do that,” said Gil. “Look. Talk to her about it. I would love you to come along if she can spare you, because obviously both Agatha and Tarvek will be there, and I want you to do something for me if you can. I want you to distract Tarvek. You're the only person I know who stands a chance of matching him in a battle of words.”

“Ah. Well... I would like to do that for you,” I replied. “But if Lucilla needs me, she obviously has to come first. I will see what she says.”

“Yes, do that.” He paused. “Do you know what you're going to call the second Earl of Heversham yet?”

“Not if he's the next Earl, no,” I replied. “If she's Lady something, we're going to call her Eleanor. We both like the name. But if he's a boy... well, the problem is, Lucilla wants to call him after her father, and I want to call him after you. Unfortunately, I don't think I can live with having a son called Ethelbert, and Lucilla doesn't think she can live with having a son called Gilgamesh.”

Gil laughed. “Split the difference and call him Gilbert?”

I stared at him. “That's inspired. Now, why didn't we think of that?”

Lucilla, as it turned out, was quite happy for me to go off to Paris with Gil; after all, it was not as though I would be gone for very long, and she was growing quite as tired of the eternal Gil-Agatha-Tarvek love triangle as I was. She very much approved of the idea of distracting Tarvek. She also, I am very happy to say, approved of the name Gilbert; so that potentially thorny problem was sorted out well in advance.

So I arranged official clearance, which was really not a problem, since I was quite open about why Gil wanted me there, and I knew very well that Whitehall's attitude was that it was about time the Lady Heterodyne married someone, indeed pretty well anyone really, but Gil would be as good a person as any from the point of view of international politics. And, a few weeks later, Gil and I arrived in Paris, along with Gil's son Aristide and three titled young ladies who were looking for eligible bachelors. Gil had really wanted to bring General von Donau, but that would have meant he also had to invite Maxim, and he felt it would be undiplomatic to bring an unbalanced party. Besides, the titled young ladies were all daughters of various vassal lords who sometimes needed keeping in line, and taking them to an event such as this would definitely make Gil popular with their families.

“You look a bit tired already,” said Gil, as we waited to be ushered into the great hall. “I hope you weren't up all night worrying about Lucilla.”

“No; I slept pretty well, all things considered,” I replied. “It's just my age, Gil. Comes to us all.”

“I wish you'd stop saying things like that,” he said. “You know I'm not much younger than you are.”

I was tired; but I put that down to overwork. The Paris business had generated a flurry of paperwork from the Intelligence Service, and I had had to read, mark, learn and inwardly digest. I was not, however, going to admit that to Gil, who had perhaps slowed down just a little since the days when he could stay up for several nights in a row, but still did not really understand the concept of “overwork”. Besides, I knew I was not too tired to deal with Tarvek's verbal sparring, and that was the important thing.

He had not yet arrived when we entered, but Agatha had, and Gil took me across to talk to her. “Agatha,” he said, bowing. “You are looking particularly charming tonight.”

She smiled. “Hallo, Gil. Hallo, Ardsley. Is Lucilla not here?”

“Ah. No. Er...” I began.

Gil rolled his eyes. “Ardsley is floundering because he is a prim and proper English gentleman, and he doesn't know how to explain that his lovely Countess is about to give birth. There. I've said it.”

“Oh, Ardsley, that's wonderful news!” Agatha exclaimed. “I'm so pleased for both of you. I'll tell the Jägers. Oggie's been learning to knit recently. I'm sure he'd love to make a pair of bootees or something.”

“Oggie?” said Gil.

“Well, yes. Oggie. Why not? He's got a very sweet and gentle side.”

“I know he has, but... don't you need brains to knit?”

Agatha bridled, and I could hardly blame her. We all know, of course, that Ognian's brain is not the best part of him; but it is not the sort of thing we mention in conversation.

“I'd have you know that Oggie knitted me a very nice jumper, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach,” she said, “and if we were in Mechanicsburg now I would be delighted to show you.”

This did not look promising. When a lady addresses a gentleman by his full name, especially when she also begins the sentence with “I'd have you know,” matters are not about to turn romantic in the immediate future.

I coughed. “We would be very honoured if Oggie were to knit something for the infant,” I said. “I'm sure he would put a great deal of care into it, as he always does.”

“I'm sure he will,” said Agatha. “Now. Where's Tarvek, I wonder?”

I looked at Gil. His face was a study.

“Oooh!” said Agatha suddenly. “Who's that, I wonder?”

I followed her gaze. “I do believe,” I replied, “that is the Mistress of Paris.”

Gil stared. “Sweet lightning,” he muttered.

Sparks, as we all know, have their specialities; and, occasionally, one appears with a natural flair for textiles. The late Queen Ewa of Poland was one such, although in her case it was very much a sideline. But the gown that Celeste de Machault was wearing made even Queen Ewa's most glittering creation look quite ordinary by comparison.

She looked as though she was wearing pure light.

Obviously, she could not have been, because the gown was perfectly decent. There must have been some prosaic-looking weave somewhere under the shimmering interplay of luminous colours. Yet those colours changed and flowed and danced as she moved, mostly along what ought to have been the grain of the fabric, but sometimes on the bias to pick out the most important lines of the style. I wondered how much it would cost to have one made for Lucilla; possibly more than I could afford even on my salary.

“Wow,” breathed Agatha. “She's got to be using Hauptmann vector fields there, but... with light? That's awesome.”

“Yeah, but how the hell is she stabilising them?” asked Gil. “I could do something like that in the lab, but it'd break down in five minutes and that's on a flat piece of metal. And she's doing it on fabric... and wearing it...”

A frown of concentration took over Agatha's face. “I'm guessing she's using some kind of fractal feedback mechanism,” she replied.

“Fractal?”

“Yeah, you know, when you've got a non-integer number of dimensions, which is what you technically do have with something like a gown, even though it is pretty close to an integer. It's that extra fractional dimensionality that would normally destabilise the field pretty much instantaneously.”

“Agatha, I know what a fractal is, but what's fractal feedback?”

I am by no means incompetent at science, but these two were sparks, and they were losing me rapidly. Still, on the bright side, they were now talking animatedly about something they had in common, and the bone of contention regarding Ognian's intelligence had clearly been forgotten or at least shelved for the moment. I murmured my excuses and wandered off in the hope of intercepting Tarvek when he arrived.

There was no sign of him yet. I did, however, spot a very welcome sight; there was a little table in one corner, attended by a footman, and on this table stood a large bowl of iced water with sprigs of mint and slices of lemon floating in it. Normally there is not a great deal of provision at such events for those who are merely thirsty; one drinks wine for the taste, not to quench the thirst. I was very grateful that there was some here, as I was quite dehydrated. The footman ladled out a glass of water for me, and I drank it at once and asked for another, which I was then able to drink more slowly. There would be plenty of time to get a glass of red wine once I had finished that.

_“Zdrastvuitye, Gospodin,”_ said a familiar voice behind me. I turned, and saw Tsar Arkadii with the Tsarina on his arm. She had previously been Princess Sylwia of Poland, but, like her illustrious predecessor Catherine the Great, she had now taken a Russian name, and was known as Tsarina Elisaveta.

I switched to Russian myself. “It is good to see you again, Your Imperial Majesties,” I said.

“You too,” said Arkadii. “Though you have lost some weight, I fear. You have not been ill, I hope?”

“No, but I have not spent any appreciable time in England for a while. I appear to put it on there and then lose it on my return.”

“Ah! Well, you had better spend some time in England soon, or your cheeks will become hollow and that would not suit you.” He smiled. “What do you make of the new Mistress of Paris?”

I thought so. Tsar Arkadii and I are on friendly terms, but he would still not have approached me merely to ask about my health. “If the gown is anything to go by, she is a much more powerful spark than I thought possible,” I replied. “Baron Wulfenbach and the Lady Heterodyne are both clearly impressed with it.”

“Indeed. Very well. You are a highly intelligent man, and a man of the world. Your country has spies in Paris, naturally. So does mine. So will the Baron's, and almost certainly so will Mechanicsburg, although it is small.” He paused. “And you are still surprised by this charming young lady. So am I. Why do you suppose that is? Where has she been hiding up to now?”

“I am very glad someone else is asking that question, Your Imperial Majesty,” I replied. “It means that our Intelligence Service has not, after all, made some enormous mistake.”

He twitched an eyebrow. “Did you really think that was likely, my lord? I have always heard that it was very good.”

“It is,” I replied, “but even the best of us are not immune to error.”

“Indeed not.” He lowered his voice further. “And while we are still talking in confidence, do you yet know anything about the assassination? For I will tell you frankly, we do not.”

“We are in the same position,” I replied. “So is Gil, that is, Baron Wulfenbach. He would not share classified information with me, but he would tell me at least if he had some definite idea who was guilty. I am sure you're aware that many people have suspected him.”

“Most interesting,” said Arkadii. “I trust I have just been as much help to you as you have to me?”

“I believe you have, Your Imperial Majesty,” I replied.

There was a little obligatory small talk after that, and then the imperial couple drifted away to talk to someone else. I looked again thoughtfully at the Mistress of Paris. She was, I realised, very beautiful, in the same faintly doll-like way as the Tsarina; but while Tsarina Elisaveta was very pale, with jet-black hair and huge blue eyes, Madame de Machault was blonde, with upswept hair and ringlets at the front like...

Great Scott, I thought. She looks like Marie Antoinette.

Think, Wooster, I told myself. You're missing something important here. The late Master of Paris was a very powerful spark himself, although it was never easy to tell exactly what he could and could not do because of the secrecy with which he surrounded himself. Someone managed to assassinate him, and we still don't know exactly who it was. And now this woman, who appears at first sight to be a spark roughly on the level of Agatha and Gil, appears to replace him out of nowhere, and is said to be some relative of his, but not even our Intelligence Service has been able to find a definite answer on what sort of relative. And now it turns out she bears a rather striking resemblance to a dead queen who was famous for her beauty.

Oh, and her name is de Machault. Not a common name. If they can't trace who she is from that, then it's not her real name.

I finished the glass of water, took a glass of red wine the next time someone passed me with a tray, and went across to speak to her. I was starting to form a hypothesis, and it was time to test it.

I bowed. “Good evening,” I said, politely. “Allow me to congratulate you... madame.”

She was very good indeed. I would have missed the look of startled horror if I had not been carefully watching for it; she had it wiped off her face within an instant. I, in turn, kept my own face very well schooled to ensure that she did not catch any hint of triumph in my eyes, for if she had seen that I would have been a dead man. Now I had to cover my tracks at once.

“Please, forgive my hesitation,” I said smoothly. “I was not sure how you wished to be addressed. After all, it is already clear that you are making great changes from your predecessor's style.”

Now she smiled, and I saw the moment of utter relief, as fleeting as before. “Of course! I am quite happy to be addressed as Madame. And you are...?”

You know very well who I am, I thought, but I am playing charades for my life here. “I am Ardsley, Lord Heversham. I am here with Baron Wulfenbach; I am the British Ambassador to his Empire.”

“Ah! A pleasure to meet you, my lord. Your French is excellent.”

“I studied here in Paris, madame,” I replied. “Oh! But here is one of your most important guests, at last.”

Indeed, there he was. Tarvek Sturmvoraus, the Storm King, dressed to kill in plum-coloured velvet and the most exquisite embroidered satin waistcoat, fashionably late as usual, sauntered into the hall looking like the cat who was confidently expecting the cream. I wondered exactly what he was plotting this time. Say what you will about Tarvek (and Gil frequently does), there is no denying that he has a certain style.

“Allow me to introduce you,” I said. I really could not think of a more perfect opportunity to distract Tarvek; if he reacted to her gown half as enthusiastically as Agatha and Gil had done, he was going to be in spark heaven for the rest of the evening.

Tarvek is quite happy for me to call him Tarvek, because I am an old friend of Gil and Agatha, but in most contexts he insists on having his extremely lengthy list of titles rattled off. I am a diplomat, so this is not a problem for me. While I was rattling them off, I could hardly avoid noticing his face.

Oh yes. Tarvek was distracted. In fact, it was fair to say that Tarvek was exceedingly distracted.

“P...p...pleasure to meet you, madame,” he stammered. He took her hand, and kissed it more gauchely than I have ever seen him do anything.

I downed the last of my wine and left them to it. I might be tired, I might be starting to feel my age, I might not be looking my best, but, by Jove, I'd still got a working brain. And a sense of humour, which was going to have to wait to be indulged; I could hardly laugh in here.

I did that much later, back on the flyer.

“Ardsley,” said Gil, “you look a wreck. What's the matter with you? Are you drunk?”

“No,” I replied. “I'm just dog tired, releasing a bit of tension, and finding the whole evening extremely amusing.”

“Heh,” said Gil. “You wait till I tell you what Agatha worked out. Tarvek will have a fit when he finds out.”

“You mean when he finds out he was dancing with the Master of Paris all evening?” I asked, with a grin.

Gil stared at me. “How the hell did you work that out? I know you're clever, but dammit, you're not a spark!”

“Indeed not; but I am a diplomat,” I replied. “Once I realised that the most likely explanation of the mystery was that Celeste de Machault was actually the old Master under a new guise, all I had to do was test that and read her face as I did so. The Master of Paris knows me, and he knows what kind of man I am. He would not consider it out of the question that I might somehow recognise him. Therefore, all I had to do was hesitate ever so slightly before addressing her – or him, if you will – as Madame.”

Gil gave me a sidelong look. “You still don't mind playing dangerous games, do you, Ardsley?”

“I wouldn't have played this one if I hadn't been sure I could win it,” I replied. “I have Lucilla to consider. And probably, by now, also a new-born infant.”

“Well, you won, and you won handsomely,” said Gil. “I don't have to tell you how furious Agatha is with Tarvek at the moment. Of course, it'll probably pass, because she's been as angry as that with him before; but while he was spending the evening being dazzled by Madame Celeste Marie Antoinette Master of Paris de Machault, I was very happily dancing with Agatha. You are a marvel among diplomats, my friend.”

I grinned. “You're generous, but don't attribute all of it to me. I was sure he'd be distracted by the gown, but I hadn't expected him to be quite so distracted by the lady.”

“Well, you wouldn't,” he replied. “Because you don't think she's a patch on your Lucilla.”

“She isn't,” I said simply. “But I'm interested to know how Agatha worked out who Madame de Machault was without speaking to her.”

“Spark stuff. She realised that anyone who could do that with a gown could also do it with a face. Oh, it's not the Master's original body; that was found, of course. It's a new body of some kind. I hope it's a clank; I wouldn't like to think he had taken over some young woman and altered her face. But, whatever it is, I don't suppose it looks like that without his influence, if you want to put it that way.” He stretched out his legs in front of him. “It's a clever trick. He was starting to make some influential enemies in the city. So, pretend one of them had finished him off, bring in this beautiful young woman, have a complete change of regime, and all of a sudden they're all eating out of his hand. Her hand.”

“Just like Tarvek,” I said, with a smile. I yawned heavily.

“Heh. I don't think I am ever going to let him live that one down. But you, Ardsley – I shouldn't keep you up talking. You're half dead on your feet. Get some sleep.”

“I'd better, or I shall fall asleep where I am,” I said. “Goodnight, Gil.”

“Goodnight.” He chuckled. “Oh, Sturmvoraus. You just wait till I see you again...”


End file.
